love was a song
by Vivere Libri
Summary: AU where America realizes the red dress she's wearing at the beginning of The One is "not her" and decides to rip it off before Maxon shows up. And then we proceed from there with various random one-shots, not necessarily strictly canon, that occur during The One. Probably.


The red dress suffocated America as she lit the last candle, but she kept telling herself that this was what needed to be done. She had to show Maxon she was still interested in him. She had to _escalate_.

The scene was perfect, a picture straight out of a romance novel. The gentle wind, the flickering candles, the girl waiting for her prince.

Except America was not that girl. She stood in her room in the most revealing dress she'd ever worn, setting up an artificial scene, and for what? Queen Amberly had told them "be yourself." She had gotten this far with that. Maybe she needed to do something to prove to Maxon how much she cared, but she didn't want to lose herself in the process.

The dress, the candles, the seduction was alright for someone else, but not America. She wanted Maxon almost more than she had ever wanted anything else, but she never wanted to compromise herself for it.

Defeated, America blew out all the candles and then wiggled out of her dress. Leaving it a pool on the floor, she unearthed some of her old clothes from home. The cotton shorts and t-shirt were worlds more comfortable.

Sitting down at her vanity, America got to work removing her make up. When the painted face was removed, she paused. Here was the girl from Carolina, hidden under layers of niceties and show. Until this moment, America hadn't realized that girl had drifted so far away.

Filled with resolve, America stood. No, that girl never went anywhere. She was changed and sometimes hidden, but she would always be America Singer. What that meant, exactly, was up to her. A little bit of home, a slice of heartbreak, strength from the ordeal that was the Selection—she was all of it, wasn't she?

Feeling equal parts confidant and nervous, America preoccupied herself at her piano. She had no idea what she would say to Maxon when he came to her room or what reaction he might have. Would he find her as ridiculous as she had felt? Or maybe he had preferred her that way? Celeste had certainly been successful with it.

Shaking those thoughts from her head, America got out some paper and a pencil and started working.

As a Five, America's job was to play music. Play well, be heard but not seen, and do what your employer wants you to do. During the holiday season it meant America grew sick of carols, but that was how money was made.

Fives weren't often paid to make their own music, but Magda had included it as part of her children's education. After all, in order to read music, musical theory must be learned. Composing small, simple pieces became exercises. They would never get used, but it was a way to occupy oneself and was a valuable learning tool.

Almost an adult, America could barely remember the last time her mother made her sit down and compose a few measures of her own. But once she started playing, the memory of an old tune came back. And then her fingers were flying across the keys, pausing occasionally to jot down the notes.

When the knock came, America was absorbed. It was like she was back home, working away in her room. She tossed a "come in" over her shoulder and then went back to work. Whoever was at the door waited a while to announce themselves.

"Are you writing your own music?"

America jumped, her pencil skidding over her paper. "Maxon! You scared me."

He raised an eyebrow. "You knew I was coming."

"Uh, right." Her cheeks felt warm. Hopefully he wouldn't mention the dress. "I just got…caught up." Her eyes drifted back to the music she had been writing.

"Can you show me?" Maxon stepped into the room, but then paused when he stepped on the bright red puddle of fabric America had left on the floor.

"Sure!" She managed to choke out. Turning back around and shuffling her pages, America got ready to play. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maxon take a seat on her couch. Clearing her throat, America played the few measures she was happy with. When she was done, her hands returned to her lap and she waited.

Maxon frowned. "That's it?"

"It's a lot harder than it looks." America scowled.

"Of course." The silence stretched on between them. America didn't want to bring up the dress, but she didn't want to talk about anything else. Her thoughts were jumbled, and she wanted to see what Maxon was thinking first. Thankfully, Maxon didn't have years of staring contests with siblings to build his resolve. "So, uh, you looked nice today."

"Nice?" America asked. Is that what he really thought? What did nice mean? She would have to prod him a little more. Standing, America scooped up the dress and held it up to her body. She turned to face her mirror, pretending to examine the image. "The color is pretty."

"Just the color?"

Ah, so he was playing a game to. But what if he _had_ liked the way she looked? What if this was the way to a prince's heart?

"My maids and I are trying something new," America said. She trailed off, her gaze moving to Maxon's in the mirror. She wondered what he wanted from her. Then she wondered if it mattered.

"It is different."

God, he wasn't going to give her a straight answer, was he? American sighed, twisting this way and that in the mirror and remembering what she had looked like. "I definitely felt...sexy…but."

"But?"

Maybe Maxon didn't have years of arguing with siblings under his belt, but he had been trained his whole life to keep his emotions hidden. No, she wasn't getting anything out of him. America wouldn't know for sure if he liked her this way. But she knew her own mind. "But it wasn't me." She let the dress fall to the floor, revealing a girl in a baggy shirt and old cotton shorts.

Maxon's face broke. "Oh, thank God."

A whoosh of air left America in a breathy giggle. "It was ridiculous, wasn't it?"

Maxon stood, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder. "It was different, and you did look, uh, nice. Like Celeste. But you aren't Celeste."

"No," America agreed. "I like me better,"

"I like you better too," Maxon kissed her rapidly reddening cheek. "I'm sorry we haven't gotten a chance to be together in the past few weeks."

America shrugged. "I understand. I'm not the best choice for princess, you have to look at the other options." It hurt to say, but it was true. And they were trying to be more honest with each other, right?

Maxon sighed heavily, his chest pushing against America's back. It was comforting, just to be held by someone like this. "I know you're trying."

"I am," she insisted. America whirled around, needing him to see the sincerity in her face. "I'm trying to convince Sylvia to continue with our extra lessons, and I've been doing studying in my free time, and I've been looking at—at flower arrangements and there's these recordings of dance lessons—"

"Hey, hey," Maxon smiled softly. "Don't overwork yourself."

"I have to," she said, frustrated that he didn't understand. "I'm at a disadvantage, Maxon. Everyone else has connections or skills or natural traits that make them competitive. I have nothing to offer you."

It was only when she was finished that she realized how worked up she had gotten. Her breathing was slightly labored, her throat a little choked with worry.

Instead of looking concerned or sad or whatever America might have expected, Maxon stepped away from her, lips pursed. "Is that what you think? You have nothing to offer me, like I'm trying to marry based off of—of what? What will bring me the most popularity or money?"

"Well, not… not just that," she stammered. "I know you want someone to love, but you need to think about who will be a good princess, a queen. Clearly, I'm not…I'm just not."

Her heart sank when Maxon took a couple more steps back from her, shaking his head. He paced her small room, running his hands through his hair. "I didn't know you felt that way." He finally said.

"You told me that I needed to work on this stuff!" She cried, frustrated. "Of course I feel this way. I bring nothing to the table, _I have nothing to offer you_." Repeating the words didn't make them sting any less.

Maxon paused in his pacing. "You could offer me the opportunity for companionship, a friend who would challenge and support me. You offer insight and new ideas and passion. And if you think that is nothing…"

Compared to what everyone else had? It was easy to feel like her personality was nothing. Maybe those things mattered to Maxon, but to his father and advisors and the rest of the country?

"What do you want me to say?" She deflated, at a loss. It was getting harder and harder to tell what Maxon wanted.

"I don't know." Maxon said, voice flat. "I need some time. I'll see you tomorrow." And then he left.

Her jaw hit the floor. How dare he? They were having a serious conversation—she was in distress. And then he just left! He accused her of not trusting, not communicating, jumping to conclusions, and he wouldn't even talk to her!

Resisting the urge to chase after him and throw something at his head, America settled for pacing around her room. She felt like there were sparks at her fingertips, and her heart raced. She would have slapped him if there wasn't a chance of getting executed for assaulting the prince.

Growling, America whipped around, searching her room for something to do. Read a book? Go to sleep? Her eyes landed on her piano, and she sat back down. For a moment her fingers danced in the air above the keys, trying to remember an old melody. Then she began. Her fingers were blurs over the keys, playing an aggressive angry song. But it wasn't enough.

Standing abruptly, America opened the violin case in the corner of the room. The instrument was of a far higher quality than anything she had ever _looked_ at, but a violin was a violin. It only took a few moments to get accustomed to it, then she was off.

The song she chose started slow, menacing, but then took off in a flurry. It was difficult, and more than once had been the source of aching callouses and cramped fingers. But tonight, America welcomed the difficulty and the ache that came with it.

When her door slammed open, America was completely unprepared. Her bow scraped against the strings with an undignified screech as she whirled around, ready to demand the interloper to leave.

"We need to talk," Maxon looked deadly serious.

"I thought you needed time," she said, then turned back around and started playing. Louder than before.

"I had some time," Maxon tried to talk over her, but she wasn't paying attention. Finally, he seemed to settle on waiting her out. Another battle of the wills. Why was she always at war with Maxon? Wasn't she falling in love with him? She was fairly sure it wasn't supposed to be this way. At least, it hadn't been this way with Aspen. Maybe that was just a sign that the relationship was doomed to fail.

That thought made her pause. Maxon started to say something again, but she wasn't ready to hear him yet. Instead, she switched songs to something sadder and slower. He didn't try to speak again until the end of that song. By that time, America's pulse slowed, and her thoughts were a little less jumbled. At least enough to hear him out.

"You look beautiful when you play," Maxon said. "And that's what you bring. I…understand there's a lot of pressure. You have to learn things that are second nature to me. But I need you to understand that those things are secondary. I don't care if you'd make a good queen. I want someone who would be a good wife."

America lowered the violin, carefully putting the instrument back in its case. "We don't get the luxury of thinking like that."

"America, if there was no hope for you, then yes, I wouldn't marry you no matter how much I loved you." Maxon said, making her turn around and stare incredulously. "But you have so much potential to be a good princess or queen. You could do it, and there would be people that would help you. But right now…I don't want to choose someone based on that. I just want someone to love."

That was easy for him to say. He wasn't being pressured on all sides, reminded of his deficiencies and flaws every day, struggling with falling in love and heartbreak—except he was.

"I still don't know what you want from me, Maxon." She said.

"Just…be yourself?" He suggested.

She snorted. "That's the only advice anyone ever seems to give."

"Because it's solid advice." He said. "I'm already falling for you. You don't need to become someone else for that to happen."

"Really?" Happiness bloomed in her chest. A wide grin spread on her face, though she tried to contain it a little.

Maxon smiled in reply, holding his arms out to her. She stepped into his hug, holding on tightly. "I'll try. I still don't know—anything. What I should do, how I should prove myself to you, but I'll try."

"Me too," he said. "I'm the one who's been keeping my distance. We'll do more stuff together, I promise. Even if it's just a couple of minutes every day. You make my days better, it should a requirement."

America chuckled. "Prince Maxon Schreave must see America Singer for his health and wellbeing?"

"I'll draft a statement," he said. "But seriously. Tomorrow, after lunch?"

"Sounds perfect," America leaned back to look at his face, relaxed and happy. The Selection was an ordeal, that was for sure. But as long as she got to see this face every day, it'd be worth it.


End file.
